


ovoviviparous

by BlindSwandive



Series: Masquerade fills [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Eggpreg, Forced Orgasm, Imagined monster abortion, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mpreg, Other, Oviposition, Prostate Milking, Sam is a fighter, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Rape, Winchesters Never Say Die, graphic birth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23619931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: Sam will promise to never go out on a hunt alone again.  That is, if Dean ever finds him.  Rather, if Dean finds him before the monster currently using his insides as an incubator lets him starve to death in this cave.
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Tentacle Monster
Series: Masquerade fills [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1280822
Comments: 11
Kudos: 102
Collections: SPN_Masquerade Spring 2020





	ovoviviparous

**Author's Note:**

> For the spn-Masquerade prompt: "Sam/tentacles, dub/non-con, forced-orgasm, prostate-milking, mpreg, graphic-birth. Tentacle!monster keeps Sam as a breeder for its offspring."

Sam howled as the pain shot through his gut again. The eggs were soft--softish, anyway--so why did it hurt so bad when they cracked open inside of him? 

He knew better--sort of--but he tried again to crawl for the tunnels that would lead to the mouth of the cave, or where he thought the tunnels would be, anyway. He could practically hear his brother's voice in his head (or sometimes his father's): "Winchesters don't give up. Winchesters never say die. Winchesters always keep fighting."

This monster didn't much like it when Sam kept fighting, though.

A thick coil slid around his waist, and when he kept crawling anyway, another whipped around his thigh, catching him up short. He struggled forward against it, and a third wrapped over one of his shoulders, the tip slithering against his throat. When he fought, the coils tightened, dragging him clawing and kicking back closer to its embrace. He growled in frustration and swung out with a fist.

The third tentacle wrapped around his throat. That was a warning.

The pain subsided for the moment and Sam panted, resting on hands and knees, and the coils loosened. Sam slumped over on his side and curled into a ball as the squirming started in his belly.

The pain of the egg cracking open was always hideous--pulsating, sharp and nebulously aching at once--but the part that came after, Sam thought he might hate more. It didn't hurt as much (it still hurt like hell), but it felt like his body was revolting, like his insides were trying to turn themselves out, trying to slither out of him on twisting tendrils, and it made his teeth set on edge and his skin crawl.

This was the birth. Or the escape, or whatever you wanted to call it. The mutiny from within.

Sam had taken Zoology in his first year at Stanford, because it seemed more new and interesting than Bio 101 and it still met the undergrad science requirement. He had always been a good student, eager and attentive, excelling at whatever subject he put his mind to, and he still remembered that the three main forms of gestation in animals were oviparity, viviparity, and ovoviviparity. The first two were simple--you grew something inside you in a placenta and birthed it alive, or you laid an egg and it hatched later. The third was the combo meal, gestationally speaking; the egg stayed inside the body, the creature hatched from it, and eventually was delivered in a live birth.

This thing, whatever it was, was ovoviviparous. Sam had decided this was definitely the worst of both worlds. It wasn't even his own damn eggs he was gestating, so it was clearly some kind of parasite, too. At least they didn't eat him on the way out.

He _hoped_ they weren't eating him on the way out. He was still alive, anyway, and he guessed it had been close to a week by now, though it was impossible to tell time accurately in this place. In any case, he assumed that if he were meant to die of the birthing it would have happened by now. But starving to death eventually did seem in the cards, unless Dean managed to find him before it was too late.

"Never again," he could hear Dean saying, "you are not sneaking out to 'take care of it' on your own _ever again._ "

"Never again," he mumbled aloud in agreement. The monster didn't seem interested in replying.

The strange squirming revolt inside of his lower intestines signaled that, free of its shell, yet another spawn--how many was this now, five? Six? He'd lost count--was going to begin its journey toward freedom. If it was anything like its brothers--sisters--monster-siblings--it was going to eat most of the eggshell first, do some somersaults and beat the shit out of Sam's insides just for kicks, maybe go the wrong way for a bit just to make him nauseous, and eventually, agonizingly slowly, find its way down toward the light. Then the real pain would be back, but if he was lucky, he'd pass out for that part. There were no epidurals in the cave. Unconsciousness was as close to blissfully deadened nerves as he was likely to get.

Number Six (he was pretty sure) spent what he guessed was close to an hour exploring and playing kick-drums on his organs before it got down to business, and Sam wobbled back up onto his knees, and then onto his feet. Squatting seemed to help, sometimes.

And he still held out hope--useless, stupid, fleeting hope--that one of these times he'd be able to make a break for it and the monster would fail to catch him. Maybe if he timed it just right, leapt just as the spawn hit the ground, its mother--father--monster-parent--would be distracted by it and he'd make it free.

"Never say die, Sammy."

Christ, now he could almost _hear_ Dean. He'd been in the dark too long.

The itching-squirming-burning-oozing-twisting feeling began as tiny tendrils, smaller than his pinky fingers but so many of them, too many of them, started finding their way out. Sam had learned to relax, mostly, or to bear down, and that sometimes helped, but the creatures moved on their own time. The second and third had practically ejected themselves, the births throbbing and painful, but blissfully brief. The first and fourth had dilly-dallied so long he'd started to claw at his own hole trying to get them out, only to have them retreat inside from the hostility and start all over again once he'd fallen asleep, cramping and miserable.

This one seemed like it was going to be shy, one tentative tentacle at a time, and Sam tried not to cry in frustration.

"Please," he begged it uselessly. "Please just get out."

He braced his fingertips on the ground and perched like a sprinter, bearing down. Maybe it would take the internal suggestion. It at least felt like something productive to do. Granted, when it didn't work, it left him sore and weak.

And it usually didn't work.

A few more tentacles squirmed into the vestibule and Sam gave up and panted, rocking on his feet when a wave of dizziness hit.

God, he missed food. His blood sugar was destroyed and there wasn't exactly any glucose lying around. He suspected the spawn had eaten anything left digesting inside of him days ago, and he was slowly beginning to digest his own muscle.

Another tendril or two pushed out and the pain began in earnest. Sam thought he was pressed open wide enough to pass a lemon, but it would be at least the size of a grapefruit. The worst had been as wide as a cantaloupe, but that one had torn him and he'd passed out, woken with something oozing into the damage until it went numb and knit itself back together. 

That had been the problem, that ooze. It hadn't mattered that he'd hacked limbs off and even shot the damn thing--the ooze was practically liquid stitches. It glued its damaged limbs back together and patched its leaking holes, and when it hurt Sam too badly, it seemed to figure that out and patched him up, too. 

He wondered if he'd reach a point when he wouldn't want it to, anymore.

"Keep fighting, Sammy," said his internal Dean.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam muttered. "Say that when _you're_ birthing tentacle monsters out of your ass."

Sam sighed and tried to peer between his legs. There was a faint pervasive glow throughout the cave (bioluminescent subterranean plants or animals, said the old reliable Zoology course notes in his memory banks); it wasn't much to go by, but his eyes had adjusted, and he could make out vague shapes reliably. The tiny fingers crawling out between his legs were waving curiously, reaching blindly out and curling on the air as though searching for purchase.

Frowning, Sam planted his feet a little further apart for balance and reached a hand down. Slowly, hoping not to startle it, he extended his fingers so the tentacles would have something close by to grab onto.

It still startled a laugh out of him when the first curled around the middle knuckle of his middle finger.

"No, Sam," he scolded himself silently, "that is not cute. It's going to grow up into another of _those._ " But a bizarre wave of something soft--empathy or fondness--washed over him anyway and he held his hand firm while more of the little tendrils wrapped around his fingers. When the mass of it started to shift downward, the pain crested high enough he thought he might pass out again, but he scraped his fingertips over the cave floor and panted short, sharp breaths and willed himself to hang on.

He waited until he was sure it was close to halfway, when he was split open wider than his own fist, and gently, firmly pulled his hand down. It went like he'd hoped (something had to, this week) and the tiny tentacles tightened their grip rather than lose hold. In one breath, the mass--some ten pounds of wet, wriggling arms caked in slime and soft shards of pale eggshell--pulled loose and fell to the ground.

Sam almost forgot his plan, smiling curiously at the dark tails wrapped around his fingers. But the wet slap of its body landing jarred him back into action, and he shot forward as fast as he could.

He made it two full strides.

The damn thing never seemed to sleep, never seemed to get frustrated, never lost patience and did something stupid. It was too single-minded, too inhuman. Sam tried to be unpredictable, tried to flee at a new angle with a new speed, and his ankle was noosed and snapped out from under him just as easily. He landed on his face. 

The monster reeled him back in as slowly and deliberately as it did everything else, and Sam's fingers got no purchase on the ground. His fingernails had split and bled days ago, but he dug down anyway, focused on the pain to drive him, kicked and screamed and thrashed rather than give in and let the process begin all over again, but it was inexorable. If he fought more, it wrapped more of its tentacles around him. If he thrashed more, it pulled him closer to the mass of its body. It did what it wanted with him when it wanted to, prevented his escape, and didn't seem to care or even notice him in any other way.

He wondered what would happen if he started trying to smash the babies, but even the thought made his stomach turn. Still, the thing seemed invincible in its larger size; maybe the small ones could be crushed before they were unstoppable.

For a moment, Sam stopped struggling, though tentacles were now wrapped around both legs, one arm, his belly, and over one shoulder. He tried to focus his eyes through the dimness for one of the smaller creatures; there were a half dozen now (-ish) and the space in the cave wasn't infinite, so they couldn't have gone far. He spotted one he suspected had been among the earliest, since it had gone from the size of a small cat to the size of a medium dog--and that growth rate was alarming to say the least--but before he could wrap his free hand around one of its tentacles, it had slithered off behind its moth--progenitor, and Sam had lost any distance he had gained.

A thread of guilt began to tug at his belly, thinking about trying to kill one of the little ones, but then the tentacle over his shoulder curled around his neck and the ones around his waist and legs began to spread him wide like an insect about to be pinned. The tips of two tendrils began to worm slimily up inside of him to pry his aching hole open, and one of the oddly spongy arms Sam had identified as a reproductive organ slithered up inside of him. His stomach turned. At least the guilt evaporated. 

"Next time," he vowed silently. Next time he was free he'd see if he could kill a little one before it became _this._

As if to punish that thought, the organ jammed its way in deep, and Sam felt like he was being split open again. He knew better--he did, sort of--but he started to struggle, and the tentacles around each of his limbs coiled up higher like snakes, the smooth surface slipping easily over his skin before constricting painfully. The coils around his waist and throat tightened too, pressing the breath out of him, and the tips in his hole pressed deeper and pulled wider to combat the unconscious clenching. The shortness of breath only made him convulse harder, and a third tendril wormed its way inside to shield the organ and the tender egg that would be slipping toward him even now, as ungiving as a speculum.

If it were still, it wouldn't be quite so bad, but no part of the monster ever seemed to be. Sam wondered if it was like a shark, constantly needing to move to keep oxygen entering some invisible gills, or if it needed motion to keep its blood or lymph or nutrients circulating. Whatever the cause, the coils around him _pulsed,_ thumping like a heartbeat, constricting and loosening like some enormous blood pressure cuff swelling just over and under the line of pain. And the tendrils inside of him...

Sam tried to ignore them--every time, he did--but they writhed slickly in and out of him in an endless cycle of twists and dips. Sometimes it felt aimless, and it probably was, but sometimes--this time, for instance--one of them would find the swollen organ inside of him and pulse against it as it moved to its own rhythms, writhe back and forth for the eternity it seemed to take for the egg to work its way from the center to deep in his belly. The irony was that he knew if he could just hold still and stop fighting, it might be able to work its damage faster, and it might let him go to crawl around the cave for the hours it would take for its young to gestate and grow inside of him. He might get his respite sooner. But he couldn't. Sometimes it was Dean's voice egging him on, telling him not to quit, or his father's like a drill sergeant demanding one more lap. Sometimes it was pure muscle memory and reflex, or panic at being throttled. Every time, Sam fought, and every time, he wound up pried open and touched deep, rubbed over and over until he ached.

Inevitably his dick would pick up on the action and stir to life. It was a direct connection, after all; he couldn't really begrudge the thing, but it still left him feeling ill, or when he had the energy, angry. Angry was slightly better. Angry left him feeling less helpless, at least.

The slick sawing lit up all the nerves around the rim, left them buzzing and warm, and the tendrils curling inside built a slow ache that spread through his groin. The wheezing breaths he could suck past the squeezing of his throat kept him from passing out, but left him seeing spots, did something strange to the pressure building below, and sooner than seemed possible, he was jerking through an orgasm. 

It wasn't long before he was wishing it hadn't happened so fast. The jerking alerted the monster to the need for more control, and it began to force another tentacle into his tender hole, winding more coils haphazardly around his body. Soon his chest was encircled, his free arm now pinned against his body, and another limb wrapped around his head over his mouth (he bit it for spite). A second joined the one pulling his right leg open, this one high up his thigh, and still another circled his hips, pressing his dick to his belly.

And then it resumed its endless, twisting writhe.

The coil around his hips rubbed idle and slow over his spent and oversensitive dick even as the new tip inside his hole stuffed him fuller and the one on his prostate went on moving unbothered, unaware. Sam struggled to keep still, to keep it from adding any more binds, but when his dick began to harden again and the raw nerves inside him lit up more pain than pleasure, he twitched, eyes beading up in the dark. It ached so deeply, an agony of arousal and stimulation, and it seemed impossible he would ever crest through the pain to another orgasm, impossible his body would be able to give one up, and unbearable if it wouldn't.

The second orgasm seemed to take an age to build, and it hurt when it came, pulsed with a hot pain that seemed like it stretched from between his legs clear up through his navel, and even though there wasn't much left in his balls to give, it seemed to go on longer, spitting and then twitching after it finished. This time he was held too tightly to really lash out, small blessing, so it didn't add any more precautions to his bondage, but the egg was only now beginning to reach his abused rim, so the writhing pressure on his prostate and dick didn't end and the tears fell freely while he howled against the arm stifling his mouth.

Sam could tell when the egg and the organ delivering it were passing through the ring of muscle, because the gatekeeper tendrils pulled him somehow wider to ensure he couldn't crush the delicate shell. He still felt the fullness against the walls, when it passed, felt the organ where it swelled out between the tentacles, and then the egg was sliding achingly slowly along the tentacle rubbing his angry prostate, now throbbing with each beat of his heart, seeming to pulse bright red against the back of his eyelids with every beat. Half-delirious, Sam wondered if you could die of orgasm, if you could be bled dry by your dick by anything but a succubus.

At least a succubus would give you a vision of something delicious, fill you with such want that you wouldn't mind. This was pure sensation, a lustless torture that his dizzy and ever more oxygen-starved brain was beginning to believe would never end, would go on until he starved to death, a dry husk still coming while the eggs hatched inside of him.

The sea-sick cramping began when the egg was pushed further up inside, looking for the bend past which the monster seemed to consider it safe and warm enough to leave its young to develop. His thoughts were hazy, and the combination of the pain in his groin and the pain in his gut was making it even harder to think, but he thought the coil around his belly might have loosened, like it didn't want to risk damaging the egg as it slid into place. He could breathe a little easier until he couldn't, when the egg wedged almost up under his sternum, distending his belly a little and weighing against his lungs. When it finished developing, he would be able to see it there even in the dark, swollen and tender, looking seven months into an impossible pregnancy.

Even in his delirium, vision fading away from the edges while a third orgasm built, Sam saw hope, black and brutal. A fall on his belly, far enough along, and he might be able to kill the thing inside him. He bit into the coil in his mouth hard and came howling, passed out in the monster's grip.

It would set him down gently. It always did, to protect the egg.

Sam knew deep in his soul that Dean would find him, eventually, would find a way to save him. In the meantime, Sam would learn to be one-man population control for a fertile tentacle monster in a cave. It was cold comfort, but it let him sleep.


End file.
